God's Needle
by The Quoi
Summary: "The only way that he could ever be worthy in the eyes of the Lord was doing the things nobody wanted to in His name, being the necessary cruelty, the essential sword, the crucial poison to the world's purity." Not a pairing story.
1. God's Needle

_A/N: Don't be scared away by this having Integra and Enrico as it's main characters, because it's not a love story. More of a political intrigue, espionage, assassination and backstory type of tale. Enjoy reading, and leave a review if it pleases you! _

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><p><strong>It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.<strong>  
><strong>-<em>Helen Keller.<em>**

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><p>He was not going to concede his political advancement for the sake of some blonde heretic woman and the devilish children she kept at her pre-school of an organisation. There was simply no sympathy in his heart enough to give her the time of day, let alone his mercy. Perhaps others would call him a mad zealot after this, but he and his beloved organisation had come too far into the worshipping of the Lord to let something so trivial faze them now. They, Section XII, the Iscariots, were swords of the Almighty and nothing more. If one blonde heretic women had to die by their hands to uphold His wrath, then so be it. Twenty-nine years of his long, aquiline nose in a Holy Roman Bible had shaped him this way, and there was no turning back now.<p>

He smiled slightly as he remembered the day he had met Anderson to become one of his orphaned flock. The older man, who never changed, had looked down on him with a love and acceptance that had repulsed him as a small child. He hadn't understood the emotion for what it was, and so he spat it back at the older man with a declaration that he would one day rule, conquer, and be a figure of admiration. Despite his revulsion, he had taken note of the dark, nearly sad expression that had crossed the old man's face as he declared his ambitions and had kept that moment of deep pity coveted secretly in his heart ever since.

Deep down, he knew that he was already damned. Though he prayed and confessed and went through the habitual deeds of a common humble priest, he had always been aware that succumbing to sin such as pride and lust for power had no fear-raising effect on him like it did some other, purer Catholics. He knew where he came from, what his parentage was. His mother some common whore, his father some English man who he never met and who's name had apparently been 'Maxwell'. He smiled bitterly at this name, 'Maxwell'. He wasn't even sure if it was the first or the last name of the man who fathered him, he only knew that his mother had named him such in an attempt to put distance between her and the child she had borne out of wedlock. 'Enrico' came from the weather man that she watched every afternoon religiously, to see if she could work in the evening. He didn't even have a proper middle name. He only had one letter; 'B'.

He knew nothing about 'B', or why he had it. He only knew that he was named after the weatherman, his last name might not actually be a true last name, and that his middle name was 'B'. That was what he repeated to himself as he watched his mother lay on their dirty couch and mumble, her eyes rolling back in her head as a needle doused into her flesh like a shark cutting the water with its fin. She had nearly overdosed multiple times before him. The first time he had nearly had a panic attack, but once she began to overdose nearly every third day it became a habitual, almost soothing task to take the needle out of her arm, turn her over on her stomach so she wouldn't choke and watch out for any signs of impending death. He remembered those long nights of vigil, where his mind would drift to better places but his eyes would stay trained on his junkie maternal figure. Most nights she wasn't home, but that was normal. She was working. She'd come home with money and a nice buttered muffin every morning for him.

Enrico always enjoyed mornings while living with his mother. For at least half an hour every single morning she was always sober, she was always kind, and she would even clean herself up while he'd sit on the floor of their bathroom eating the pastry she'd brought him. After she was done brushing her hair and washing her face, she'd smile at him, as though she couldn't believe he was still there, pat his head with her left hand, and pretend to box his ears with her right. Then she'd wink and say, "There you go, boy", and turn to go to her bedroom to shoot more drugs into her veins.

He remembered picking up a needle for the first time. He was five years old, and curious. He had watched his mother put the rubber band around her arm and put this thing into her veins more times than he could have counted. Her reaction to the needle was one of love and devotion, something he had never seen before. He wondered if perhaps he could feel it too. He had a theory when he was younger that the special needle was God, and that when she used it, she was able to look at God and bask in his love. So, one day, he picked up one of her needles as she lay desolate on the couch, and pricked it into his delicate skin. It pinched, cruel and painful.

Maxwell rubbed the crook of his elbow as he remembered sticking a needle into his arm for the first time. He still had a scar. Being by no means experienced, he had poked right through the vein and in panic and pain, had ripped it out the wrong way. His skin had split, red rivets of blood pooling quickly down his arm as the pierced vein spilled forth his life essence. He remembered feeling immediately woozy, and lying down on the scuffed yellow linoleum floor. He flickered in and out of consciousness, colours bursting behind his eyes as his tiny body fought to keep him alive. He had woken properly when strong hands, male and unfamiliar, lifted him briskly and put him securely on a bed. He remembered in stark detail the bumpy ride as he was transported somewhere. Someone stuck a needle in his other arm, and he remembered smiling, thinking that whoever it was also wanted him to see God.

It had turned out that he had been very close to death, and his mother had come out of her drug induced stupor to find him lying in a pool of his own blood. Maxwell remembered wanting to see her while he was being cared for in the hospital, but for some reason she never came. He now understood that she had been barred from seeing him, that her drug habit had finally been realized by the state and she was then no longer allowed custody of him. After recovering, he was sent to her grandparents who lived in Rome. He remembered hating it, and fighting with the social worker who came to pick him up. He had pulled a full-blown tantrum right there in the hospital lobby.

His grandparents' house was bleak, small and left less to the imagination than his old home. However, they were well-respected individuals in their neighbourhood, so they were fit for the task of raising him. He remembered looking into the wrinkled, scowling face of his mother's mother and wondering if she too had ever experienced God like he and his mother had. He had a tiny room at the top of the house, and they left him alone. His grandfather was a man sitting in a shadowy corner barking orders at him and his wife, and Maxwell had never dared approach him. One night, he had come downstairs to use the bathroom when he found his grandmother lying on the floor. Figuring she was having a moment with the Lord, he turned her over onto her stomach but nearly vomited when shock when her head turned to reveal a red slash cut into the back of her skull. Blood stained his hands. He didn't know what to do. He shuffled into a corner of the kitchen and hugged his knees, waiting for someone to come and fix everything. Eventually, his grandfather lumbered into the room.

The old man kicked the old woman's body and growled something incomprehensible. Then he turned to young Maxwell and said, "That is what you do to meddling, heretic women, boy. You put a hole in their head." He then lumbered over, picked him up by the collar of his pajamas and beat him. Maxwell didn't think to fight back. He must have been a man of God to know what a heretic was. He must talk to God often. The Lord Almighty must have wanted his grandmother to die, and for his grandfather to punch him in the mouth until he bled.

Maxwell caressed the stubble on his chin, remembering the blows as if they were yesterday. His grandfather had told him that with a proper, regular beating, he could get into heaven even if he was a whore's child. He believed him, full-heartedly. He still believed him. The only way that he could ever be worthy in the eyes of the Lord was doing the things nobody wanted to in His name, being the necessary cruelty, the essential sword, the crucial poison to the world's purity. He had decided to cast himself away from the other children, for he needed not their kindness, nor did they need to be sullied by his damned presence. He found two others like himself at Ferdinand Luke's. Heinkel Wolfe, a young girl defiled by her own father and Yumie Tegaki, who had killed her mother's abuser in a fit hatred induced rage. The three of them, damned to burn forever in the fires of purgatory, but still so loyal to His teachings.

Reluctantly, it seemed, Anderson began to teach them the trade of killing in the name of the Lord. The man had his own fault of bloodlust nearly unmatched by the three of theirs, and they climbed easily into the ranks of the Church as members of Iscariot. Maxwell himself had been a deft knife-user, utilising blessed rampuri knives to despatch with undead and heathens alike. Recognizing his talent at politics, however, he had been given the job to head Iscariot on her God-given mission.

_And here I am still_, he mused, plucking at the white gloves covering his long fingers. _But I am not a useless politician, certainly… As you, my dear Integra Hellsing, will find out very soon…_

Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing… Now that was a name someone could understand. It was so invariably _English_that it nearly dripped in posh bourgeoisie. She knew who her parents were. She was born in wedlock between a dark-skinned Lady from India and blonde-haired English knight. She had inherited the title of 'Sir'. She was a political figure more powerful than the Prime Minister, practically the Queen of England's right hand. He licked his lips in barely-contained jealousy. Though their government was one filled with heathens, he burned in rage at the ease with which she was able to climb ranks of power, simply for the fact that she knew who her parents were and that she had been born into a title of respect. Maxwell had had to work endlessly for the Church to recognize him as a valid member of their society.

His hands tightened around the pen that he was tapping furiously against his wooden desk. His assignment, written plainly on paper, lay before him. The words were printed in plain black ink, the Holy Seal punched officially and cleanly. _Assassinate Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. Make it look like an accident. Make it seem like it was not the fault of the Catholic Church, and more specifically, the Vatican. Should you succeed in doing both of these tasks, you shall be promoted to Archbishop. Should you fail to kill her, return to the Vatican and face punishment in the eyes of His Holiness, the Pope. Should you succeed in killing her but fail to keep the assassination undercover, terminate yourself immediately and pay for your sin in the fires of hell._

There it was. He was the only priest fitted with the stealth, cunning, and subtlety in the whole of Iscariot to complete this task. His Holiness wanted it over and done by the end of the year. He refused to concede his political success for some blonde heretic woman. Never. He gazed to the calendar hanging on the wall. May 23rd, 1999. He had six months, and time was ticking.


	2. To Dust

_A/N: So, this is chapter two. I'm totally skipping things that I have to do to write this. It's like a bug, I just can't stop!_

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><p><strong>I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.<strong>  
><strong>-Oscar Wilde.<strong>

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><p>She awaited him with all the grace that had been bred into her from her birth. Her arms were loosely folded, her shirt was starched beautifully white and her scarf was arranged meticulously. Her legs crossed delicately in a flight of ladylike fancy, contrasting completely with the thick suit pants she wore. She had taken off her thick jacket in favour of the beautiful early summer sun shining down on the outdoor cafe where she sat. They had decided on a neutral location to sign their treaties, and so she found herself in a tiny, beautiful village along the French countryside. Her waiter was a young fellow with a dark hair and thin beard, his longish hair pulled into a knot at the top of his head. Every once and a while, when he caught her eye, he gave her a very wide, very white smile. She wasn't sure at this moment if he was smitten with her, or if he was just a very friendly young man. She assumed it was the latter. Her suits intimidated most people.<p>

She adjusted her glasses and took a moment to appreciate her surroundings. Thick old trees grew like giant umbrellas over the streets and the lazy, warm breeze smelt distinctly of petunias. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath appreciatively. Though she loved London, its odour of smoke and ash was why she herself still kept house outside of town though it was sometimes not convenient for the amount of political work she had to do. She could have moved into a posh house in the city, separated herself from her Vampires and simply pulled the executive strings from afar. She opened her eyes once more and smirked slightly. She really only had to see _him_when the Blood Seals needed to be renewed. Otherwise, she could have led a more or less normal life as a politician who lead an organisation whose mission it was to terminate the undead. She smiled fully now. She could be like Batman. Posh woman by day, undead hunter by night.

However, she could never do that. Though he tested her, teased her, offered her immortality on a daily basis and probably spied on her while she was in the shower or undressing, she had become rather fond of being protected by the King of Nosferatus. Sometimes, meaningless banter with Alucard was what kept her sane. She had no idea if he appreciated it as much as she did, but she would never tell him that. That was part of their game. Not to mention Seras would probably wind up stringing Captain Bernadette up by his testicles if she were not there to intervene with threats of docking the Captain's pay for his ridiculous antics. She shook her head. She often felt more like a babysitter to these rough hired men and undead individuals than anything else.

She checked the small gold watch on her wrist. Ten to three. As usual, the man was late. Today, though, she did not mind as much as she usually did. He had been sensible enough to keep her waiting in a very pleasant place instead of some stark, boring room like he normally did. She always let him pick the _endroit_, or so she told herself. Admittedly, though, he tended to pick the venue for her. Only her pride as a well-bred Englishwoman kept her from fighting something so trivial as a meeting place. Had she been born under any other name, she would have fought him tooth and nail. She trusted Enrico Maxwell and his plethora of religious zealots just about as far as she could throw them, which considering the giant ego they had (Maxwell in particular) was not very far at all.

After their rather explosive introduction two years ago at the British museum, she hoped he would have the sense this time to keep his own 'pets' at home. Walter had accompanied her on this sojourn to France, and she hoped Maxwell had the decency to bring someone who had self control. Walter had stayed at the hotel in favour of his ailing health. She worried about him, really. He was getting on in years. She quite loved him like a daughter to a father. He had taken her in when her father had passed away, and had raised her to be the woman she was today. She loved her biological father, but she still held immature resentment for him deep down in her heart of hearts for leaving her at such a young age. She knew it wasn't healthy nor grown up of her to do so, but many habits die hard. Walter C. Dorneaz had been there when no one else was.

Her eyes darkened a little as she remembered the taunting voice of her uncle. She had been so scared, barely fourteen years old, having to crawl through the vents to get away from him. Shooting a man in the head at such a young age had both been her saviour and the thing that ruined her. Alucard had respected her for her bloody deed, and that made her all the more aware of how revolting it was. She had committed murder. Even if it was for self defence, she had taken a life. She still carried the nauseating feeling of being rejected immediately from innocence into the murky fires of purgatory to this day.

She was drawn out of her reverie at the sounds of heavy boots tapping in an impossibly light way along the wood veranda outside of the cafe. _Here we go_, she thought, taking out a cigarillo and placing it to her lips. She had just lit the tip when a man joined her at the small, round table, quietly putting a black briefcase and some loose papers on it. Just before he sat down, he fished in the back pocket of his ludicrous royal purple trousers and pulled out a small white pack of foreign cigarettes. He then plopped himself casually as you please into his seat and lit one.

"Enjoying the air?", he asked her lightly, his heavily accented voice spilling across the silence like spilled milk. He would always play this game, this farce of friendliness. He would be charming with her, gallant even, until it aggravated her so much that she snapped and was short with him. Then the poison hiding behind his smooth face would rear its head and spit its toxins. They had once even come to blows. He had hit her, hard, across her face, sending her glasses flying across the room to shatter on the floor. She had slowly turned her head, wiping the blood off of her face. Instead of hitting him in retaliation, she smiled. That day, she had won that game.

"Yes, actually", she said with real truth, "This village is a most delightful place. I was admiring the trees along the road, there. Such strong oaks. Time and nature seem to have been unable to harm them, or even change them in any way. They weather life's battles against death and disease and grow taller and stronger for it…" she cast a significant look in Maxwell's direction, "It is a most _admirable _accomplishment, don't you think?".

Though Maxwell was an egotistical man, he was anything but dimwitted. He caught her meaning and smiled in a very patronising way. "Yes…" he replied slowly, turning his head slightly to the side like an interested cat, "though their growth is unfortunately a futile effort. They weather the world, but everything must die. I hear they have plans to widen the road here, make it more… _Accessible_…" he gestured to the great oaks around them, "Their time is most likely coming to an end… Though they are strong, the wills of _man_are stronger."

Integra very much doubted that when he said "man" he meant it literally. She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, yet kept the entertained expression on her face. "And yet… There is still nature, who does not judge or count its dead, and continues blindly while the trees are left to rustle in the wind, and then be crushed to _dust._"

She could almost see the tiny spark of indignant anger in his eyes. She liked this game. They stared for a long time at each other blowing smoke into the air, two dragons hoarding over their pride like gold. Finally, she smiled more fully, honestly satisfied with the spark of anger she had caused him, and looked down questioningly towards the papers and the briefcase that sat between them. He returned her smile with a false one and pulled the objects towards him.

"I do believe we have a treaty to sign.." he said, waving his hand lazily, "we certainly don't want any… _Accidents_, like we have had in the past, do we?".

Integra couldn't stop her lips instinctively pursing tight at the mention of 'accidents'. "Quite", she said, desperately trying to keep her voice calm. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that Anderson's murder of her men still hurt her.

"I was present with His Holiness, the Pope as he sanctioned these agreements. His Holiness had been in contact with your Queen", he said the words as if it were a bad taste in his mouth, "to negotiate various borderlines and protocol manoeuvres in areas of neutrality. As it stands, everything from England, Westward to Belgium, the Netherlands, and the northern countries are under Hellsing jurisdiction… Everything else, save for France, Switzerland and Germany, are under the jurisdiction of the Holy Catholic Church. Those three countries preferred to remain neutral, having their own methods of despatching the undead." His eyes flashed.

She knew for a fact that Iscariot overstepped its boundaries, particularly in neutral zones. She was almost tempted to challenge her enemy in this, but knew her resources were too far stretched as it was to engage in a rivalry with the Iscariots on neutral soil. Let the Iscariots dust the French earth with the ashes of the damned. One day, all would be dust.

"This document details the points I just made. Read it carefully, Miss Hellsing, I'm sure you don't want to miss anything…", he talked to her as though he was helping a child with their homework. He deliberately left out her title, which irked her far less than his terrible, patronising tone. She decided to gently take the papers from his hand, and billow out her anger in cigarillo smoke.

She read through the document with the trained eye of someone who was used to catching clauses where they would hurt. She read on and on, until she caught a section that made her pause in confusion and righteous anger. "What is this?", she demanded of him, her voice deadly soft. He smiled, and she realized he had been waiting for her to find this clause.

"You see, Integra… The Queen and His Holiness feel as though the relationship between we, the Iscariots, and you Hellsing dogs is a bit… Ah, strained…" he drew a long breath of cigarette smoke, as though her anger was the nicotine he inhaled into his lungs. "Clashing religious beliefs aside, they both feel as though there is far too much in-fighting while both organisations carry the same goal; To search and destroy the undead and salt the earth with their dust. Therefore, they both decided on a healthy solution. Would you care to read it to me, I'm not quite clear on the exact wording…" he trailed off and gazed at her with a happiness that was almost out of place.

Her gaze was as cold and hard as granite. With as much casualty as she could, she read out the following clause;

_"By order of His Holiness, the Pope, and Her Majesty, the Queen of England;_

_Should the leaders of either Section XIII, the Iscariots, or the Hellsing Organisation come to a point of inability to lead (by sickness or insanity) their troops in their mission against the undead, the director still retaining their health and sanity must then take the life of the other director, to assure that no confidential information be leaked to the public, for risk of causing mass mayhem and panic."_

She looked up at Maxwell after reading it out loud, and raised her eyebrows. Inside, she was secretly broiled with shock and the slight sting of betrayal from the lack of warning from her Queen. "What does it say, '_by sickness or insanity'_? Does that mean I get to put a bullet in your head right this moment on the argument that you are insane?" she asked drily.

He laughed at this. It was a cruel sound. "No, unfortunately, Miss Hellsing, that would be far too obvious. Though…" his voice seemed to drop an octave with a sudden deep passion that he hadn't expressed before, "time and effort can do anything to people, can't it?".

Integra signed the treaty, ill at ease. Maxwell's quiet promise replayed over and over in her mind.


End file.
